Volume 6 / Part 2 — WILLIAM MOTHERWELL.
Reading edition
William Motherwell was born in High Street, Glasgow, on the 13th October 1797. For thirteen generations, his paternal ancestors were owners of the small property of Muirsmill, on the banks of the Carron, Stirlingshire. His father, who bore the same Christian name, carried on the business of an ironmonger in Glasgow. His mother, whose maiden name was Elizabeth Barnet, was the daughter of a prosperous farmer in the parish of Auchterarder, Perthshire, from whom she inherited a considerable fortune. Of a family of six, William was the third son. His parents removed to Edinburgh early in the century; and in April 1805, he became a pupil of Mr William Lennie, a successful private teacher in Crichton Street. In October 1808, he entered the High-school of Edinburgh; but was soon after placed at the Grammar-school of Paisley, being entrusted to the care of an uncle in that place. In his fifteenth year, he became clerk in the office of the Sheriff-clerk of Paisley, and in this situation afforded evidence of talent by the facility with which he deciphered the more ancient documents. With the view of obtaining a more extended acquaintance with classical literature, he attended the Latin and Greek classes in the University of Glasgow, during the session of 1818-19, and had the good fortune soon thereafter to receive the appointment of Sheriff-clerk-depute of the county of Renfrew.
From his boyhood fond of literature, Motherwell devoted his spare hours to reading and composition. He evinced poetical talent so early as his fourteenth year, when he produced the first draught of his beautiful ballad of "Jeanie Morrison." Many of his earlier sketches, both in prose and verse, were inconsiderately distributed among his friends. In 1818, he made some contributions in verse to the "Visitor," a small work published at Greenock; and in the following year became the third and last editor of the "Harp of Renfrewshire," an esteemed collection of songs, to which he supplied an interesting introductory essay and many valuable notes. Pursuing his researches on the subject of Scottish song and ballad, he appeared in 1827 as the editor of an interesting quarto volume, entitled "Minstrelsy, Ancient and Modern,"—a work which considerably extended his reputation, and secured him the friendly correspondence of Sir Walter Scott. In 1828, he originated the Paisley Magazine, which was conducted by him during its continuance of one year; it contains several of his best poetical compositions, and a copy is now extremely rare. During the same year, he was appointed editor of the Paisley Advertiser, a Conservative newspaper; and this office he exchanged, in January 1830, for the editorship of the Glasgow Courier, a more influential journal in the same political interests.
On his removal to Glasgow, Motherwell rapidly extended the circle of his literary friends, and began to exercise no unimportant influence as a public journalist. To The Day, a periodical published in the city in 1832, he contributed many poetical pieces with some prose sketches; and about the same time furnished a preface of some length to a volume of Scottish Proverbs, edited by his ingenious friend, Andrew Henderson. Towards the close of 1832, he collected his best poetical compositions into a small volume, with the title of "Poems, Narrative and Lyrical." In 1835, he became the coadjutor of the Ettrick Shepherd in annotating an edition of Burns' Works, published by Messrs Fullarton of Glasgow; but his death took place before the completion of this undertaking. He died of apoplexy, after a few hours' illness, on the 1st of November 1835, at the early age of thirty-eight. His remains were interred in the Necropolis, where an elegant monument, with a bust by Fillans, has been erected to his memory.
Motherwell was of short stature, but was well-formed. His head was large and forehead ample, but his features were somewhat coarse; his cheek-bones were prominent, and his eyes small, sunk in his head, and surmounted by thick eye-lashes. In society he was reserved and often taciturn, but was free and communicative among his personal friends. He was not a little superstitious, and a firm believer in the reality of spectral illusions. Desultory in some of his literary occupations, he was laborious in pruning and perfecting his poetical compositions. His claims as a poet are not inconsiderable; "Jeanie Morrison" is unsurpassed in graceful simplicity and feeling, and though he had not written another line, it had afforded him a title to rank among the greater minstrels of his country. Eminent pathos and earnestness are his characteristics as a song-writer. The translations of Scandinavian ballads which he has produced are perhaps the most vigorous and successful efforts of the kind which have appeared in the language. An excellent edition of his poetical works, with a memoir by Dr M'Conechy, was published after his death by Mr David Robertson of Glasgow.
JEANIE MORRISON.[48]
I 've wander'd east, I 've wander'd west, Through mony a weary way, But never, never can forget The luve o' life's young day! The fire that 's blawn on Beltane e'en, May weel be black gin Yule; But blacker fa' awaits the heart Where first fond luve grows cule. O dear, dear Jeanie Morrison, The thochts o' bygane years Still fling their shadows owre my path, And blind my een wi' tears; They blind my een wi' saut, saut tears; And sair and sick I pine, As memory idly summons up The blithe blinks o' langsyne. 'Twas then we luvit ilk ither weel, 'Twas then we twa did part; Sweet time—sad time! twa bairns at schule, Twa bairns, and but ae heart! 'Twas then we sat on ae laigh bink, To leir ilk ither lear; And tones, and looks, and smiles were shed, Remember'd evermair. I wonder, Jeanie, aften yet, When sitting on that bink, Cheek touchin' cheek, loof lock'd in loof, What our wee heads could think. When baith bent doun owre ae braid page, Wi' ae buik on our knee, Thy lips were on thy lesson—but My lesson was in thee. Oh, mind ye how we hung our heads, How cheeks brent red wi' shame, Whene'er the schule-weans, laughin', said We cleek'd thegither hame? And mind ye o' the Saturdays (The schule then skailt at noon) When we ran aff to speel the braes— The broomy braes o' June? My head rins round and round about, My heart flows like a sea, As ane by ane the thoughts rush back O' schule-time and o' thee. Oh, mornin' life! oh, mornin' luve! Oh, lichtsome days and lang, When hinnied hopes around our hearts, Like simmer blossoms sprang! Oh, mind ye, luve, how aft we left The deavin', dinsome toun, To wander by the green burnside, And hear its waters croon? The simmer leaves hung owre our heads, The flowers burst round our feet, And in the gloamin o' the wood, The throssil whusslit sweet. The throssil whusslit in the wood, The burn sang to the trees, And we, with nature's heart in tune, Concerted harmonies; And on the knowe abune the burn, For hours thegither sat In the silentness o' joy, till baith Wi' very gladness grat. Aye, aye, dear Jeanie Morrison, Tears trickled doun your cheek, Like dew-beads on a rose, yet nane Had ony power to speak! That was a time, a blessed time, When hearts were fresh and young, When freely gush'd all feelings forth, Unsyllabled—unsung! I marvel, Jeanie Morrison, Gin I hae been to thee As closely twined wi' earliest thochts, As ye hae been to me! Oh, tell me gin their music fills Thine heart, as it does mine; Oh, say gin e'er your heart grows grit Wi' dreamings o' langsyne? I 've wander'd east, I 've wander'd west, I 've borne a weary lot; But in my wanderings, far or near, Ye never were forgot. The fount that first burst frae this heart, Still travels on its way; And channels deeper as it rins, The luve o' life's young day. Oh, dear, dear Jeanie Morrison, Since we were sinder'd young, I 've never seen your face, nor heard The music o' your tongue; But I could hug all wretchedness, And happy could I die, Did I but ken your heart still dream'd O' bygane days and me!
WEARIE'S WELL.
In a saft simmer gloamin', In yon dowie dell, It was there we twa first met, By Wearie's cauld well. We sat on the broom bank, And look'd in the burn, But sidelang we look'd on Ilk ither in turn. The corncraik was chirming His sad eerie cry, And the wee stars were dreaming Their path through the sky; The burn babbled freely Its love to ilk flower, But we heard and we saw nought In that blessed hour. We heard and we saw nought, Above or around; We felt that our luve lived, And loathed idle sound. I gazed on your sweet face Till tears fill'd my e'e, And they drapt on your wee loof— A warld's wealth to me. Now the winter snaw 's fa'ing On bare holm and lea, And the cauld wind is strippin' Ilk leaf aff the tree. But the snaw fa's not faster, Nor leaf disna part Sae sune frae the bough, as Faith fades in your heart. You 've waled out anither Your bridegroom to be; But can his heart luve sae As mine luvit thee? Ye 'll get biggings and mailins, And mony braw claes; But they a' winna buy back The peace o' past days. Fareweel, and for ever, My first luve and last; May thy joys be to come— Mine live in the past. In sorrow and sadness This hour fa's on me; But light, as thy luve, may It fleet over thee!
WAE BE TO THE ORDERS.
Oh! wae be to the orders that march'd my luve awa', And wae be to the cruel cause that gars my tears down fa', Oh! wae be to the bluidy wars in Hie Germanie, For they hae ta'en my luve, and left a broken heart to me. The drums beat in the mornin', afore the screich o' day, And the wee, wee fifes play'd loud and shrill, while yet the morn was gray; The bonnie flags were a' unfurl'd, a gallant sight to see, But waes me for my sodger lad that march'd to Germanie. Oh! lang, lang is the travel to the bonnie Pier o' Leith, Oh! dreich it is to gang on foot wi' the snaw drift in the teeth! And oh, the cauld wind froze the tear that gather'd in my e'e, When I gaed there to see my luve embark for Germanie. I look'd owre the braid blue sea, sae lang as could be seen A wee bit sail upon the ship that my sodger lad was in; But the wind was blawin' sair an' snell, and the ship sail'd speedilie, And the waves and cruel wars hae twinn'd my winsome luve frae me. I never think o' dancin', and I downa try to sing, But a' the day I speir what news kind neibour bodies bring; I sometimes knit a stocking, if knittin' it may be, Syne for every loop that I cast on, I 'm sure to let doun three. My father says I 'm in a pet, my mither jeers at me, And bans me for a dautit wean, in dorts for aye to be; But little weet they o' the cause that drumles sae my e'e, Oh! they hae nae winsome love like mine, in the wars o' Germanie.
THE MIDNIGHT WIND.
Mournfully, oh, mournfully This midnight wind doth sigh, Like some sweet plaintive melody Of ages long gone by: It speaks a tale of other years— Of hopes that bloom'd to die— Of sunny smiles that set in tears, And loves that mouldering lie. Mournfully, oh, mournfully This midnight wind doth moan; It stirs some chord of memory, In each dull heavy tone: The voices of the much-loved dead Seem floating thereupon— All, all my fond heart cherished, Ere death hath made it lone. Mournfully, oh, mournfully This midnight wind doth swell, With its quaint pensive minstrelsy, Hope's passionate farewell. To the dreamy joys of early years, Ere yet grief's canker fell On the heart's bloom—ay, well may tears Start at that parting knell!
HE IS GONE! HE IS GONE!
He is gone! he is gone! Like the leaf from the tree, Or the down that is blown By the wind o'er the lea. He is fled—the light-hearted! Yet a tear must have started To his eye when he parted From love-stricken me! He is fled! he is fled! Like a gallant so free— Plumed cap on his head, And sharp sword by his knee; While his gay feathers flutter'd, Surely something he mutter'd— He at least must have utter'd A farewell to me! He 's away! he 's away! To far lands o'er the sea, And long is the day Ere home he can be; But where'er his steed prances Amid thronging lances, Sure he 'll think of the glances That love stole from me! He is gone! he is gone! Like the leaf from the tree, But his heart is of stone If it ne'er dream of me; For I dream of him ever— His buff-coat and beaver, And long sword, oh! never Are absent from me!